


here is the deepest secret nobody knows

by wedelia



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies), Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Crack Treated Seriously, Fluff, Inspired by Poetry, Love Confessions, M/M, a little unavoidable melodrama, this is not Serious Literature
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-28
Updated: 2017-09-28
Packaged: 2019-01-06 08:40:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12207720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wedelia/pseuds/wedelia
Summary: The Enterprise beams an away team onto a planet whose inhabitants speak only in poetry. It’s contagious.





	here is the deepest secret nobody knows

**Author's Note:**

> This was meant to be longer, but I underestimated how challenging it would be to find poetry that fit in the context of the story. Writing this fic was like trying to put together a jigsaw puzzle using pieces that were all from separate boxes.

They notice that something’s wrong fairly quickly after the away team is beamed back aboard the ship.

“It is impossible to say just what I mean,” Bones grumbles. “That is not it at all. That is not what I meant, at all.”

Spock says, with a bit of apprehension, “O Captain! My captain --” and then he cuts himself off, looking horrified.

Jim’s so confused.

Chekov wanders by just then and, taking in their expressions, says, “What’s up? Why are you of such saddened sight?”

_Okay_ , Jim thinks. _This is clearly an Issue. Capital-I and everything. I have to do something about this._

But when he opens his mouth, what comes out is, “What is there to know?”

 

“If by dull rhymes our English must be chain’d --” Scotty starts, then stops, dissatisfied with the rest of the poem for what he means to say. He picks a new one and continues. “The simple Bard, unbroke by rules of art, he pours the wild effusions of the heart; and if inspir’d, ‘tis Nature’s pow’rs inspire.”

Translation: _We’re all poets now. The environment of the planet the away team beamed down to must have spread this condition to us somehow. Oops?_

Jim nods stoically. He tries not to panic.

_Thank you, Mr. Scott_ , is what he wishes he could say.

Because he can't form those exact words right now, he settles for, “Among other things, thanks for explaining.”

 

Uhura, as the _Enterprise’_ s resident Xenolinguistics expert, seems like the most qualified person to oversee the handling of this linguistic complication. Jim approaches her next.

Through a mix of creative hand gestures and complicated verse, they manage to agree that Uhura and Scotty should work together to develop some kind of cure for this poetry bug, and that they’ll keep Jim updated on their progress.

   

Until an antidote can be found or the curse wears off on its own, whichever comes first, the crew of the _Enterprise_ just has to do their best to navigate the weird situation they’ve found themselves in.

Sulu takes to reciting long, beautiful sonnets about plants and poems that remind him of his husband.

When Uhura catches a cadet showing up late for his shift, she reprimands him in iambic pentameter.

Chekov only speaks in poems that were written by Russians, which complicates things.

Spock refuses to speak at all now on the off-chance that he accidentally -- God forbid -- waxes poetic about something _emotional_ , which complicates things even more.

Jim’s convinced that there’s got to be a cure or something to fix this. Because if it doesn’t get fixed soon, the chances of the _Enterprise_ successfully completing her five-year mission are looking pretty bleak.

 

Jim catches Spock alone on the bridge between shifts. He asks his first officer in an annoyingly flowery way whether there’s anything upsetting him, when what he really wants to say is, _What’s wrong, Mr. Spock_? Simple. Direct. To the point.

He misses being straightforward.

And, more than that, he misses Spock. Talking to him, being with him. Ever since this thing’s started, Spock’s dodged all of Jim’s attempts at conversation. They skipped their chess match this week.

“Here in my head, language keeps making its tiny noises,” Spock confesses. He’s frowning. “Tonight, at the edge of the field, I stood very still, and looked up, and tried to be empty of words.”

Jim feels a pang.

Spock keeps going. “There’s a bluebird in my heart that wants to get out, but I’m too tough for him. I say, ‘stay in there, I’m not going to let anybody see you.’”

Jim second guesses himself, thinks he maybe needs to interject before Spock says something he regrets. “I am not to speak to you,” he says, urgent. “I am to wait -- I do not doubt I am to meet you again.” _After we find an antidote that fixes this so we don’t have to talk in poetry anymore_ , he wishes he could add. “I am to see to it that I do not lose you.” _I don’t want you to be angry at me later over things you say now._

Jim doesn’t know how to interpret the look in Spock’s eyes: fond or worried or neither or both? It’s hard to read emotions in a man who doesn’t often allow himself to feel them.

Spock says, “There’s a bluebird in my heart that wants to get out. But I’m too clever, I only let him out at night sometimes when everybody’s asleep. I say, ‘I know that you’re there, so don’t be…” -- Spock hesitates -- “...sad.’”

Jim says, a bit incomprehensibly, “Let birds, let birds. Let leaf be passion.” Then, “There should be no despair for you while nightly stars are burning; while evening pours its silent dew, and sunshine gilds the morning.”

Spock doesn’t say anything for a moment. Then he says, “Thank you for your sensitive understanding.”

Before he really thinks through what he’s saying, Jim blurts, “Don’t go far off, not even for a day, because - because - I don’t know how to say it: a day is long and I will be waiting for you, as in an empty station when the trains are parked off somewhere else, asleep.”

_Oh, no. Agh. Yikes. Why did I say that?_ Jim could swear he feels his heart stop for a moment. This is mortifying and unprofessional and now Spock’s gone all still and quiet in front of him.

“Were all stars to disappear or die, I should learn to look at an empty sky and feel its total dark sublime. Though this might take me a little time,” Jim says, quickly. What he means is, _It’s okay if you don’t feel the same, if you want to avoid me now for having these embarrassing smitten feelings. I can get over it._

Jim lets the words just hang there. Like bait on a fish hook that's been cast out into fresh, rippling water. He doesn’t want to say anything else, doesn’t want to rock the boat again and watch this whole thing capsize.

The silence stretches out for a long time. That’s not a bad thing. Just a fact. It could stretch on and on forever and Jim thinks he’d be okay with it, if it meant he could stay here, like this, with Spock. He thinks the thing he wouldn’t be okay with is Spock avoiding him after this.

Spock says, eventually, “A silence with you is not a silence, but a moment rich with peace.”

Jim’s touched.

He reaches out, weaves his fingers through Spock’s. Hopes Spock doesn’t mind having his hand held. Looks at Spock, all of him, at the pointed tips of his ears and the cut of his bangs and the warmth in his dark eyes. Feels a similar warmth spreading through his chest. Jim says, smiling, “This is the wonder that’s keeping the stars apart.”

The corners of Spock’s mouth quirk up. He’s been so afraid since this poetry plague began -- afraid of revealing too much emotion, or any emotion, really. Afraid of letting the verse sink its sentimental claws into him. But now that he has, he feels...better. He admits, “I feel my fate in what I cannot fear.”

Jim beams at him. “I fear no fate,” he says, “for you are my fate, my sweet.”

Something bright and nebulous stirs inside of Spock. He doesn’t know what it is, can't quantify it, just recognizes that it's growing and intoxicating like that kind of rich, dark chocolate he's so partial to.

All of a sudden he knows exactly what he wants to say -- well, he doesn’t quite want to say it; ‘want’ may not be the best word to choose, because he’s always wanted to keep his emotions close to his chest if he has to keep them at all, but now Spock knows what he _feels,_ and he knows instinctively thanks to his poetic affliction how that would translate into words. He tells Jim, “I want to do with you what spring does with the cherry trees.”

**Author's Note:**

> List of poems quoted from (in alphabetical order by poet’s last name):
> 
> The More Loving One - W. H. Auden  
> Sympathy - Emily Brontë  
> Bluebird - Charles Bukowski  
> Motto Prefixed To The Author’s First Publication - Robert Burns  
> i carry your heart with me - e. e. cummings  
> The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock - T. S. Eliot  
> Let Birds - Linda Gregg  
> For Allen Ginsberg - Dorothea Grossman  
> If By Dull Rhymes Our English Must Be Chain'd - John Keats  
> Don’t Go Far Off - Pablo Neruda  
> Every Day You Play - Pablo Neruda  
> A silence with you - Leonard Nimoy  
> Thank You For a World of Kindness - Leonard Nimoy  
> Stars - Mary Oliver  
> What’s Up? Why Are You… - Aleksander Pushkin  
> The Waking - Theodore Roethke  
> O Captain! My Captain! - Walt Whitman  
> To a Stranger - Walt Whitman


End file.
